One More Miracle: Don't Be Dead
by Haelia
Summary: Sherlock returns post-Reichenbach. ON HIATUS. Is that ironic? I just have other things I'd rather work on right now.
1. Don't Be Cross

**A/N: This is my first post-Reichenbach fic. Actually I wanted nothing to do with post-Reichenbach fics, but this one sprang unbidden to my mind and wouldn't leave me be. So here you go, a grudging post-Reichenbach fic. Spoiler disclaimer. Copyright disclaimer. Etc. THIS IS NOT JOHNLOCK BECAUSE I DO NOT BELIEVE IN JOHNLOCK but the end may be interpreted as such if you really wish.  
**

**John POV. Somewhat stream-of-consciousness at times.**

**Two-shot. Possibly more. Have not decided. **

* * *

It has come to my attention that there is some speculation as to my reaction when Sherlock Holmes appeared on my doorstep, after having faked his death and then kept up the ruse for three years whilst dismantling the Moriarty network.

Well, let me clear it up for you.

I hit him. Hard.

* * *

_Burr._

It's the vibration, rather than the sound, that disturbs me. I have the vague recollection that I've fallen asleep in front of the telly, and I can hear the subdued sounds of an audience cheering to back that theory up, but what I don't understand is the sensation of something agitating my trousers pocket. I sit there a few more minutes, trying to come to a logical conclusion, and eventually start to slide back into sleep.

_Burr _again.

Phone. In pocket. Don't care. Drift off again.

_Burr._

Insistent. Okay, fine. Clumsily, sleepily, I lift my hand from where it has come to rest on the remote in my lap, and work my mobile out of my trousers. I punch a random button to bring up the screen. Damn, that's bright. Squinting, I make out the alert.

_**3 new messages.**_

Well, you don't say! Lestrade, maybe. Mother-henning. Bit late for a coffee meet-up, after all. I force my stupid fingers to open the menu. Messages. Inbox. New.

_**From: Unknown  
You should have stayed at Baker Street. New apartment building looks like a prison. Buzz me up. -SH**_

I snap myself out of sleep. What the hell is this? Someone thinks they're being funny. _Sherlock Holmes is dead_, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. _I watched him die. _With trepidation, I scroll to the next message.

_**From: Unknown  
Don't be cross. It's me. Open up. -SH**_

Anger intensifying now, boiling, bubbling, breaking the surface. Sleep is now the furthest thing from my mind. One more message.

_**From: Unknown  
John. It's pouring. –SH**_

I sit more upright and type furiously. _**Not amused, **_I type. _**Cease this harassment or expect a visit from the authorities. **_Not the most venomous thing I could have said, but really – I just want it to end.

_Burr._ _**  
From: Unknown  
Look outside. -SH**_

I sit there in silence for a few moments, stewing at the screen, half tempted to chuck my mobile at the television. Instead, I turn off the telly and stomp to the glass sliders that separate the living room from the balcony. It is, indeed, pouring rain. I hang my top half off the security railing and peer down at the main door three floors below. A man steps out from the shelter of the alcove, and though I can't make him out perfectly for the dark and the weather, that lithe figure is hauntingly unmistakable. If an assassin has impersonated Sherlock to get my attention, then everything is going to plan so far, because next thing I know, I'm buzzing him up. I'd go down and get him, but… But on the offchance that it _is_ Sherlock…

I can't form sentences anymore.

Wait, wait, wait as the visitor makes his way up the stairs because there's no lift in this wretched place. But this time it's okay, it works out in my favour because it gives me time to grab my Browning, and to collect myself. I have to collect myself because I'm furious with whoever would have the wherewithal to perform such a cruel trick. Whoever he is, I'm about ready to shoot him.

Correction. I want to shoot him. I'm not ready to. I'm smarter than that.

Rapping at the door. I tuck the back of my shirt in and check my grip on the Browning. Secure, steady. Deep breath. I skip the peep-hole and just yank the door open instead.

The gun in my hand makes it to about chest-level before my eyes catch up and I see, really see, who is standing on my doormat. Long limbs, slender torso, soaking wet wool coat, scarf. Clean-shaven porcelain skin, chiseled bone structure through jaw and cheekbones and – oh _god_. Cruelty. Hallucination. What the bloody hell.

"John."

Curly black hair, matted from the rain. Slightly shorter than it used to be. Same eyes, though. Blue-grey-green or some bizarre hybrid of the three, staring down at me. Dark brows knitted above.

The Browning tumbles from my hand onto the floor and I take three steps back.

Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – takes this as an invitation and steps across the threshold. There's concern on his face – I must look dizzy – and he's reaching for me as he shuts the door. He's pulling a small suitcase behind his back, the type that businessmen carry onto planes; small, with wheels. Black. He's letting go of it, possibly to catch me because it's clear I'm going to collapse, but then, suddenly, I find my bearings. I've done this before. I've faced this hallucination more than once already.

"You're dead," I tell him.

"I'm not," he responds, and is that look _apologetic_? Is he sorry he's not dead? No, no – he's sorry I thought he was.

I close the gap between us, and my left hand is already curling into a fist. The muscles in my shoulder bunch in anticipation and he's looking unsure. My arm draws back of its own volition and now he's starting to see where this is going, and my fist connects with his temple before he can react. _I've caught Sherlock Holmes off-guard,_ I think, ridiculously. The connection between my blow and his face makes a sickening cracking sound.

Sherlock reels backward, catching himself on the door he closed when he walked in, and presses his gloved hand to the side of his face. He doesn't look angry at all that I've hit him. In fact, he looks as though he agrees that he deserves it. "I'm sorry," he says, pulling his hand away from his face, glancing at the leather glove to look for traces of blood. I can see that I hit him hard enough to make him dizzy, because his eyes have gone all unfocussed, but he continues speaking anyway. "There wasn't any other way – I had to – "

Of course, this just makes me angrier. Red, red, red. I roar something at him – a profanity, more likely than not – and I'm at him again. He lets me hit him. Repeatedly. With all my strength. I have quite a bit, no one ever seems to notice. Sherlock is pressed against the door, just taking it. Like it's his penance. This makes me even more furious, if that's possible, and I redouble my efforts.

A sick wet snap from the vicinity of his ribcage is what finally causes me to stop. I'm a doctor. I know that sound. I'm an idiot.

He's in pain, but he doesn't say anything. I stumble backward, away from him, and drop myself into one of the barstools next to the breakfast counter. Facing him. Waiting. For what? Who knows.

Sherlock slides to the floor, his breathing almost as heavy as mine as he struggles not to make a sound. He's not sure if I'm done. He speaks.

"I deserved that," he says.

"You… fucking…" I can't make the words come out coherently. So I sit there and swear at him a little while, and then I get up and go over to make sure he's alright. He's bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow and from his nose, but I haven't broken his face. Not gently, I slide my hands into his open overcoat and feel for the rib I'm sure I broke. I don't find it. Not broken, anyway; dislocated. I step away again.

"I know," he's saying, "I know."

My head is a tangle of anger and sadness and – relief. I sink back into my barstool and stare. I open my mouth to ask the obvious questions, but no sound comes out. Sherlock takes his cue anyway, standing, blotting at his nose with his scarf. I hand him a kitchen towel.

"I had to," he explains. "I didn't have a choice." He paces, and explains to me what he's been doing these three years. He explains to me that he's kept me in the dark for my own safety. That he's kept everyone – except a select few – in the dark for their own safety. There's something haunted and broken in his eyes as he tells me all about dismantling the Moriarty network. It was extensive, far more menacing an entity than I had even imagined. I don't fully understand. I'm not sure he wants me to.

I listen, but I'm not really hearing. I _am _listening, though, filing most of it away for processing later. I get it, on the surface, but I can't get past much else besides _Sherlock is alive. He is alive, and he is standing in my flat in the middle of the night_.

I take a good look at him as he continues to speak. He's still thin, but he carries himself differently. It's a change I can't quite name or put my finger on, but it's visible. To me it is, anyway; I'm not sure that Lestrade or Donovan or anyone else would pick up on it. The circles under his eyes are more pronounced than they used to be – not less. There's a thin line between his brows now, like he's aged just a tad more than the three years we've been separated. Suddenly I'm less angry and considerably more concerned what he's been through over the last three years. Good God.

"John? John!" He's at my side, one hand on my shoulder as he bends at the waist. Trying to catch my eye.

I wasn't conscious of it, but at some point during all this I've crumpled a little bit in my chair, dropped my head into my hands. I can feel my own fingers in my hair, pushing too hard. The nails bite into my scalp.

"Are you about to faint?" Sherlock deadpans.

Shaking my head, I sit up straighter out of my pathetic pose. Sherlock doesn't look as if he believes me, but he straightens up, too, and I catch the wince as he does. His dislocated rib must be killing him, but there's not much I can do for it. It has to slide back on its own. I realise I haven't offered him a chair or a cuppa or anything resembling hospitality. Part of me doesn't want to. Part of me doesn't even want to deal with the fact that Sherlock is here and I have to somehow accept it.

Too much, too much, it's all too damn much.

"I should go," he states.

"Where?" I ask, too quickly.

He stares at me a few moments. Those moments seem to crawl by with an aching slowness. I wonder briefly if I've woken up in an alternate reality. One that I've created. A dream. A little cocoon. I'm a caterpillar.

I'm cracking up.

"Car," he says, watching me carefully. I think he thinks I'm to be sick.

"You could stay. Um. Here," says I, with too much caution.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

I fly off the handle again. "I grieved for you," I tell him with venom. I think there might be tears in my eyes. They sting. "We all did. That's why I moved out of Baker Street, there was too much _you_ there. I couldn't turn around without running into your ghost! All it took was the milk going bad, and I… I…"

"Is that why you stopped practising, and started teaching?" he questions.

He's been watching me. Should have occurred to me already. He found me here, after all. Has my address, knew I'd be home tonight. Mycroft. Molly. Someone. Shit-fuck-fucking-fucker-mother- "Yes."

He cocks his head, like a confused dog.

There's a dog in my cocoon. That's about how out-of-place Sherlock is in my life right now. I'm a caterpillar, this is my cocoon, and Sherlock is a dog.

That doesn't even make any fucking sense. I really am losing it.

"You aren't crazy," Sherlock says. I remember that he can read minds, and I shut mine off. "It's a lot to absorb," he continues, "and I'm sorry. I am so very, very sorry – and I would say it a million times if it would make it better, but it won't."

"Seventy-two," I say abruptly.

This catches him off guard, and I celebrate a minsicule victory. He blinks, waiting for me to go on.

"_Texts_," I hiss at him. Now I'm a snake instead of a caterpillar.

When his face crumples, I know he's understood me.

I barrel onward, even though I know this threatens my carefully crafted composure. The tears are threatening to spill. "I knew it wasn't true. I _knew_ it. I texted and texted and you never answered and… And why not me?" I demand. "Why not me? You had to have help. Mycroft, certainly. Molly, probably. Why not _me?_" I'm shouting now, without meaning to. I've gotten up, I'm pacing, I'm pointing an accusing finger in his face, jabbing it into his sternum, gesticulating wildly. "I could have helped you. You didn't have to deceive me that way! Did you really expect me to believe your stupid lie? It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard in my life! And so I texted – and texted – and texted – and called, once – and texted and e-mailed and… and you just went on pretending to be dead! I grieved, Sherlock, and I moved on, but you – "

Before I can react, he's pulled me to him. The wet wool of his coat is scratchy against my face as he wraps long, thin arms around me. "Shh," he's saying, and it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard come out of his mouth. Since when did Sherlock comfort _anybody_? But I don't question it, I can't, I can only stand there pathetically and cry into his stupid sopping coat as I try and make some sort of sense of all this.

Sherlock Holmes, my best friend. Not dead after all.

When I've recovered sufficiently to step away, the tension in the room is palpable. Not the most awkward thing I've ever done in Sherlock's presence, but it's certainly up there.

Somewhere in this incredibly uncomfortable silence is a good old-fashioned 'now people really will talk' joke but neither of us is able to make it.

"Did – Did you say car?" I question, looking anywhere but at him.

He nods, and I can feel his eyes burning over me. He's examining me, trying to deduce something and I hope to God he's failing miserably. Knowing him, though.

A few more weird moments pass and I step past him to grab hold of his rolling luggage. I wheel it into the sitting room and heft it onto the sofa. "It's pouring out," I point out.

This is met with a smile. I neglect to tell him how uncomfortable the couch is to sleep on, and I leave him there. I know I ought to ask about him. Make sure he's all fine, but I can't right now. He can wait til morning. I shut my bedroom door and collapse into sleep.


	2. Picking Up The Pieces

**A/N: John POV again.**

He's different. I mean, at the core, he's the same person. Same Sherlock, right down to the old mannerisms. Out in public, he still has to look to me to see when he's made some wildly inappropriate comment. But it's the little things, the things that other people don't notice. The things that other people don't bother or don't care to notice.

Like the way he favours his left leg, as if it's hurting him. For a long time I leave it alone, I can see he's trying to hide it, but one day after we've been out walking – catching up, even though he probably knows everything that's happened to me in the last three years – it's obviously bothering him more than usual and he limps up the stairs to my flat.

"So what is it, then?" I ask as I watch him drop down onto the sofa. I put on the kettle and lean on the kitchen bar.

"Mm?" He's genuinely confused for a moment, but then he catches my meaningful glance at the leg he's stretching gingerly. "Budapest."

"That's supposed to be an answer," I deduce. _Plop_ goes the teabag.

"Got into some trouble in Budapest," he elaborates, staring off into the middle distance. "Knife through the knee. Tore a few… things."

"And I suppose you didn't have it looked at like a normal person?" I've always accused him of not doing things like a 'normal person' would do, but this time I think it twinges a bit, if the look on his face is any indication.

"Couldn't. Too risky I'd be recognised somewhere. You made me rather famous, after all, before the fall."

The fall. That's what we've been calling it. It's not as literal as it sounds. After all, he didn't fall off St. Bart's – he threw himself off. The fall refers to the aftermath. Riley's story went to print, and Sherlock's suicide only seemed to confirm everything she'd written. People believed it. And given that Moriarty's body was discovered in relatively close proximity to Sherlock's, he's been connected to that too, but only vaguely. Nobody has any solid theories, but Sherlock Holmes is no longer a household name – not in the good sense. _That_ is what we refer to as 'the fall of Sherlock Holmes'. The slow, methodical dismantling of his reputation.

But it didn't end there. I wasn't the only one who didn't believe it. Obviously, I had my own reasons for my beliefs, but Sherlock had a dedicated fan following who stuck with him after the fall. You wouldn't believe the number of websites that popped up out of the blue. Their tones were accusatory – government conspiracy theories, assassins, and a million other reasons why Sherlock would have been attacked in this way, forced into suicide or something else. Lots of people suggested that he'd faked his own death. Good God, they'll be gutted to know they're right.

Once we clear Sherlock's name and try to mange some damage control, that is. For now he's lying low. Hats and trenchcoats and wigs.

"We should go and have it properly examined," I tell him. "Depending on what exactly the problem is, it may be repairable with surgery, at least so that it won't bother you so much."

"Maybe," he says, surprising me. He takes the cup of tea I offer him and sips carefully. "In the future. For now, it isn't a problem. I've not been chasing down London's pickpockets, after all."

I accept this for the moment, and we drink our tea in silence.

* * *

He's been living with me for two weeks when I first find out about the nightmares. Add that to the running tally of 'things that have changed about Sherlock'. Before his death, I'd never known him to have nightmares. Honestly, I only ever caught him sleeping a few times – and one of those was because he was drugged by a deranged dominatrix. It's still pretty rare now he's back, but I notice it more now because of the occasional screaming.

Scared the hell out of me the first time. He must have lain down on the couch around two in the morning, because that's when the soft strains of violin music finally die and my flat is silent. Around four, his strangled scream wakes me from a dead sleep. Panic sets in immediately. I go for the Browning in my bedside table and hurl myself from my bed, wearing only pyjama pants as I stumble out into the sitting room, pointing my weapon into every dark corner before my eyes settle on Sherlock.

He's sitting up, back to me in a nest of blankets and throw pillows. He cradles his head in his hands, and he's breathing as if he's just run a marathon. Each exhalation is strained, with a drop of his voice in it like he still wants to shout or cry. But nothing's happened – there's no evil Moriarty agent in the room and everything is perfectly still and quiet aside from him, so I can only assume he's sick or upset.

Setting the gun down, I round the couch and kneel in front of him, trying to get a good look at him in the dim light. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" I ask, taking in the sight of him. He's pale, more so than usual – pallid, in fact. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat, and there's a kind of pain written on his face that I've not seen since he stepped off the roof of the hospital. It's not a physical kind of pain, but I press the palm of my hand against his forehead because he's not answering and I don't know what else to do.

"I'm fine," he chokes. "Just a dream."

I move to sit on the coffee table, our eyes on a level. His are closed, tightly, forcefully. He's shaking a little and trying to hide it – whatever he's dreamed about, it scared him. A lot. I can make deductions too, you see.

"I'm fine," he says again, because he can feel me looking at him.

I know a thing or two about nightmares. I reach out and squeeze his shoulder, then flick on a light to navigate to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Neither of us is going back to sleep at this point. I can't get the sound of his scream out of my head.

"What was it?" I ask quietly, getting out the tea things as the kettle thinks about boiling. He doesn't answer, and I barely catch the shake of the head he gives me in response. "I get them too," I say, and at this he looks up.

"About Afghanistan," he concludes swiftly.

I nod. "Sometimes. Sometimes they're about you, though. I relived your death a million times. It scares me more now that you're back."

The has-been detective sits back and lets his head fall back, breathing in a very controlled way through his mouth. "I dream about you dying," he says, and from the way he says it I can tell he doesn't just mean now. He means regularly. "I dream that I failed utterly, and that they got you. You, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade…"

"Not Mycroft?"

Sherlock smiles vaguely. "No. Mycroft is invincible."

Since then, I can't count how many times this has happened. I remember with ease the night he came back, how tired he looked. How much more tired he looked now than before his suicide. This must be why. He must be sleeping even less now that he's plagued by these nightmares. I've tried to help him. We've talked about it a few times. Once, I suggested therapy, and he laughed. I was affronted at first, but then I laughed too – what therapist would believe anything he had to say, much less treat him? Then I offered to get my hands on a prescription sleep aide. He considered it for a couple of days, but then decided against it. "It's something I have to figure out on my own," he said; he still says this.

* * *

The rest of the changes in Sherlock are things I can't even begin to describe. The way he carries himself, the way he eats, the way he peeks into rooms before entering them as if it's a habit he can't shake. Three years is a long time, especially if you're hunting (and being hunted) by a network of criminals. Moriarty had an extensive operation set up – it's clear he had serious plans of world domination or something. Suppose those plans were all sorts of upset once he swallowed a bullet. He's changed, but he's the same. He's the same, but he's different.

Eventually we appear to Mrs. Hudson. She almost faints from surprise, and when I tell her that she mustn't tell anyone Sherlock's returned, she agrees readily. We move back into 221B.

We're considering telling Lestrade, too. Sherlock trusts him quite a bit and I do too, but we can't decide if it'll cause Greg more trouble than it's worth. After all, when it does become public knowledge that Sherlock is alive, there will be a big fuss. He'll still be wanted for questioning about all the things Riley's article accused him of. Orchestrating kidnappings and robberies, hurting people. It might be better for Lestrade to go on thinking that Sherlock is dead. I don't know it for certain, but I think that Lestrade, too, might still believe in Sherlock Holmes.

But Sherlock can't stay dead, so we'll have to figure it out eventually. He can't live his life underneath a trenchcoat and a wig. I'm not really sure where we're going from here, but at least he's back. At least he's alive, whatever his new burdens. For now, I'll just take what I can get. We'll work on the rest later.


	3. Need To Know

**A/N: I would just like to stress again, to those who are subscribed to this story – I do not know how long I will continue it. This may be the last chapter, or it may go on for another fifteen chapters. I just want to make sure we're clear, so that there's no disappointment if I don't keep going with it. (As a side note, I have a lot of other ongoing projects you can feel free to check out if this one doesn't keep going! Cheers!)**

**John POV still. (I keep bringing that up because it might change… eventually I might do a chapter from Sherlock's or Lestrade's or Mrs. H's POV. Maybe.) **

* * *

"Lestrade needs to know."

Sherlock says this into the silence of a Saturday afternoon. Up to this point, we have discussed it a few times but always arrived at stalemate. Telling Greg would put him in an awkward place – technically, he would be duty-bound to drag Sherlock in for questioning and possibly (probably) for arrest. But Sherlock knows and I know that that probably won't happen.

But just suppose Sherlock ran into some other sort of trouble. Suppose Donovan or Anderson somehow found out that he was alive. If it came to light that Lestrade knew all this time, he'd go down right next to Sherlock.

So to this point we have not come to a decision. When Sherlock says, out of the blue on that Saturday afternoon, that Greg needs to know, I am not surprised.

I know things that I should not know. I know things that Sherlock has never told me.

* * *

**Two years, six months earlier**

The café is crowded and the hum of the other customers' conversations is comforting noise. Greg and I are huddled over our mugs as if they're our lifelines, and in a way I guess they are. We have begun to cling to these weekly meetings of ours. It's like a support group. The last two people in the world who believe in Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time we don't talk about Sherlock, though; in fact, we talk about everything but Sherlock.

Today, though; today is different.

"I was there," Greg sighs forlornly. I look up from my coffee in time to see him wince as if he regrets what he's just said, but now he's come this far and I have to ask.

"Where?"

"There." He shrugs. "I was just there. Sherlock never trusted me, the way he trusts you. Not really. But I was there." He glances out the window. There is a long-standing joke between us that Mycroft listens in on these meetings, but we're half convinced it's not really a joke. Mycroft has his fingers in everything, and he's not absent from our lives even now that Sherlock is dead. "I was there when he detoxed. I was there when Donovan got into it with him for the first time. I was there when he and Mycroft weren't speaking. It's weird, to be friends with someone and have it be one-sided."

I can't help but frown, especially at that first statement. Sherlock had vaguely referenced his struggle with drugs before, but he had never gone into detail before. I feel like Lestrade bringing it up now is a terrible breach of his privacy. After all, if Sherlock were alive, we would not be having this conversation.

Maybe at this point I'm just still desperately hanging onto that thread of hope that Sherlock _is_ alive.

"It wasn't one-sided," I assure him. "Sherlock liked and respected you. He told me as much."

Greg lifts one eyebrow very slowly.

"Well… Maybe not in so many words."

We share a laugh.

Over the next couple of years, we exchange stories about Sherlock. Some of Lestrade's are horrifying. Some of mine are unbelievable. Maybe it helps us, remembering. I don't know.

* * *

So by the time Sherlock and I are discussing the possibility of bringing Lestrade into our little secret, I understand why Sherlock feels the way he does. I know that his relationship with Lestrade is nothing like the one he has with me – as Greg said, for some reason, Sherlock trusts me. Completely. Wholly. But Greg was _there_. Greg was his friend, even if he wasn't Greg's friend most of the time.

I nod my head at Sherlock's statement. "I think you're right," I say. "But you should let me talk to him first. To prepare him."

Sherlock cocks his head, giving me the confused-dog look again.

"Remember how I reacted when you came back from the dead?"

Sherlock touches his ribcage and winces. "Fair point."

* * *

The park is cold and deserted as Greg sits down beside me on the bench. He looks worried, and his eyes are locked on me. "What's wrong?" he says, misreading the anxiety on my face as something else.

"Nothing," I assure him with a smile. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Okay," he says easily. He relaxes back on the bench beside me and takes a packet of table water crackers out of his pocket. He crushes a few and tosses them to the birds.

I steel myself. "What… What if Sherlock were still alive?"

Greg smiles, and then he frowns. And then he shrugs. "That'd be… pretty complicated. I mean, before he died, he was being considered as a suspect in a kidnapping. I guess technically he still is, and still would be, if any new evidence were ever to appear and open the case again."

I shake my head. "No, I mean… What, um… What would it be like, for you?"

He laughs. "For me? Bloody brilliant, that's what." He shakes his head. "I'd want to know how he did it, for one, but… Doesn't matter much, does it? I saw the body." He sniffs and tosses a few more crushed crackers out as the pigeons start gathering at our feet. With a frown, he looks at me sidelong. "What're you on about, anyway, mate?"

My silence is his answer. I can't form the words that I need to – how do I tell him Sherlock's alive? How am I meant to do that?

"No," he breathes. His eyes are wide.

I take a breath. "Yes," I say at last, my voice lowered to a conspiratorial half-whisper. "He's alive, but – but you can't tell anyone! For all the reasons you just mentioned, this has to stay between you and me."

"Well, is he – is he alright? I mean, if he's alive, then – "

"I punched him," I interrupt.

Greg blanches.

"When he showed himself to me. I punched him, and when he presented to Mrs. Hudson, she nearly had heart failure. So… I thought I'd spare you a bit of the shock."

A deep voice from behind us cuts the conversation short. "Hello, Inspector."

Greg's face breaks into a grin and I can't help smiling myself. I rise to leave as Greg stands to examine Sherlock, to make sure he's real. Then he claps the wayward consulting detective on the back and pulls Sherlock into a hug that makes him clearly uncomfortable, and from behind Greg's shoulder I wave a goodbye to my flatmate.

I have no idea what they talked about. I left them to it. Sherlock came home only an hour later, and he said it went well. He said Greg didn't punch him. I suppose Greg has that on me, then. To date I'm the only person who's punched Sherlock for being not dead. (I am not sorry.)

We're not sure what long-term effects this knowledge will have on Greg Lestrade's career, but after the way that meeting went, I think we're both glad we made the decision to bring him in on this. I haven't seen Lestrade smile like that in three years.

So that's one thing down. Now we just have to figure out how to put Sherlock's life back together one bizarre piece at a time.


	4. Requiem for a Violin

**A/N: Migraine. Can't concentrate. So here's a little fluff. Also, if you've not seen **_**Requiem for a Dream**_**, I highly recommend it. John is right – it's horribly depressing (and incredibly graphic), but it's worth a view. And the music is haunting. If nothing else, you should youtube search the title theme. **

**Please enjoy!**

* * *

The shopping is practically tumbling out of my arms as I return to the flat one dreary afternoon. At first I start to grumble about lugging all the groceries up the stairs by myself; I mean, I did send him a text (**On my way, open the door**), and I rather expected him to pop out and help me up with this stuff. He's been very helpful since his return. He's bored. Bored enough he's done the dishes twice and even hoovered the sitting room. (Mrs. Hudson nearly had a heart attack.)

I feel bad he's bored, but we can't risk him being out in public any more than necessary. The world is not ready to know that Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Anyway, where was I? Shopping. Lugging. Et cetera.

I get most of the way up the stairs, mumbling unpleasantly to myself, before I hear it. The soft, mournful strains of violin music reach my ears from the slightly open door to our flat. At first, the sheer beauty of the piece almost lays me out flat. It's heartbreaking. And eerily familiar.

I'm able to name it after a few bars. It's the title theme from a film called _Requiem for a Dream_. I showed Sherlock that film ages ago, and he didn't care for it. I've always liked it, even if it was a bit depressing – I like melancholy, though.

He did not care for the film, but he bought the sheet music for the soundtrack only days after I showed it to him.

This is what he is playing now. On its own, the piece is good. Jolting. Powerful. But in Sherlock's hands it's something else entirely – a whole force of its own. Sherlock, in the past, has always shrugged off my awe by saying that this particular piece's virtue, the reason it jars me so wholly, is because of its adaptation for solo violin. It sounds different, and it's more compelling – this he tells me. I think he's being humble. I think it has everything to do with the violinist.

Very quietly, I set the shopping down on the landing and peer through the crack in the door. I know he might stop if I announce my presence. I know he will subdue himself a little. And I want to watch. Music, for Sherlock, is a physical experience. At least, it is when he thinks no one's watching. I press my face to the threshold and spot him at the music stand by the window.

I watch, silently, as his body folds in on itself just before the crescendo, as if he's weeping. The bow slides gracefully across the instrument perched on his shoulder. Then, as the music swells, he straightens, his head falling back a little from the violin's rest. I've seen this before, but it's a little awe-inspiring every time. His face, especially. Eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, mouth a thin line as he sweeps the bow across the strings in masterful strokes.

He calls himself a high-functioning sociopath, but the emotion is there. I can see it now, translated effortlessly in music.


	5. Don't Snicker

"It isn't… _that _bad."

"John. Please."

"It suits you."

"You're lying. You have a tell; I know when you're lying."

"No, really, I'm – wait, what? I have a tell?"

"You do a thing with your mouth, like – ugh, John, it doesn't matter, we can get into that later! Focus on the problem at hand! I'm a… I'm a ginger. This is… simply… not going to work."

"Hmm. Well, it does meet the obvious goal of making you unrecognisable. You certainly don't _look_ like Sherlock Holmes."

"_John!_"

"Though you certainly sound like him. Well, I think you should give it a chance. In any event, won't all your hair fall out if you dye it back straightaway?"

"Mmmm. That's the rumour. Mmm. Mm."

"Why are you making that noise?"

"Hmm?"

"That one."

"I'm… considering."

"You're… swaying."

"Dye fumes."

"Yes."

"Well."

"Mm-hm."

"John, don't snicker."


	6. Him

**A/N: Alright. You guys win. I originally said this fic might end abruptly, go nowhere. That's no longer true. Officially. Read on at your own risk.**

* * *

I am not sure how I got here.

There is the taste of metal in my mouth and the distinct sound of chains rattling, and a door closing and – oh _god_, my head hurts. I can't see. I feel as though I've been kicked in the chest. My ears are ringing. I can smell water.

I am not sure how I got here.

* * *

"Shh… I know… I know, it burns a bit…"

I wake to a silky voice purring in my ear. A man's voice. A voice I do not recognise. I can't see; blindfolded. There is a pain in my chest like heartburn, and a fog in my head. I know I've been drugged. I know it. I am standing, though – or in a way I am. Restrained. Chained. To a wall.

How did I get here?

"Shh." The voice again. I can feel my chest heaving in panic. The tip of a finger slides over my cheekbone sweetly. I try to wrench my face away – unsuccessfully, and the finger disappears from my skin.

"Ah," the voice says. "Okay, don't touch you. Got it." There is a pause. The man takes a breath as if steeling himself and curls his fingers around the fabric covering my eyes. Tugs it off.

I blink through the dim light. He cooes something at me again and I hear myself groan, as if over a distance. The stars fade from my vision after a moment and I force myself to look, as much as I don't want to. Take in the details. Sherlock has taught me by now to read people, right from the beginning, quickly and concisely. My eyes scan over him briefly. Male, mid-thirties, short dark hair, green eyes, clean-shaven. The suit he wears is expensive. The tie does not match. His shoes are leather. He is roughly my height, when I'm not slumping in a drug haze from a pair of wall-mounted manacles.

"That's it," the man says brightly, clapping. He smiles. The smile is disarming; kind; gentle; like a doctor. I shudder to think. "There now, Doctor Watson. We're on a level. I'm sorry for your discomfort. The pain will subside, I promise; it's an unfortunate side effect of the cocktail, but it will wear off."

"Wh… What is going… Who are you?" I choke out.

He pretends to consider it. The stone wall behind him is dripping with some sort of ruddy liquid – groundwater runoff, if I had to guess. Underground, then. I don't understand.

"I'm a friend," he says at last. "A friend of Sherlock's. A friend of Jim's."

It takes me a moment to comprehend. Then my entire body goes cold with realisation. No. Oh, god no. Oh, _please_, no. I close my eyes. _Wake up, John_, I tell myself. _Wake up. Nightmares again. Wake. Up._ I am not waking. A strangled sound dangerously close to a sob escapes me. _Surely he can hear me screaming by now. Sherlock will come and wake me any moment now. He'll sit on the edge of my bed, and pat my shoulder awkwardly when I apologise, and then we'll go and put the kettle on and watch mindless two AM telly. _

The seconds crawl by.

Sherlock isn't coming. I'm not dreaming. But this is a nightmare.

"Easy, Doctor," the man purrs. "Don't make yourself ill."

"Why?" My voice sounds like a coffee grinder. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"Well, him, of course," he says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. He spreads his hands. Every movement is reminiscent of Moriarty. Every movement. They could be twins. "Sherlock, I mean. Of course. You had to know that already… And I know what you're thinking. It isn't his coming back that triggered this particular… event. I've been here all along. Waiting. He revealed nothing I didn't already know when he came back."

That's exactly what I'd been thinking. Exactly.

"I've known where he was for three years, Doctor. I know where he was two days ago. I've always known. It's just a matter of waiting for the… ah… the opportune moment."

Obviously. Obviously. "What do you want with him?"

"To kill him."

"W-Why? Why?"

"Ohh. That's easy. Jim asked me to."

"Jim Moriarty is dead."

"Yes." The man nods conclusively. "He is. But his accounts still pay out, somehow. It's fascinating."

"Money, then," I spit, mustering some venom. "You're doing this for money."

"Mm, well, yes and no. Yes, I was paid. But no, I'd probably do it anyway. However: I'm an intelligent man, and a certain lifestyle appeals to me, so I figured the money would be a nice thing to have. It'll help me anyway."

There is a bloodcurdling scream from somewhere in the depths of this place. Far away. Echoing. A man's scream. A deep-throated, full-bodied, terrified shriek of pain. My blood runs cold.

"Oh, that wasn't him," the man states, waving it off. "But excellent deduction. He's here too, your dear little friend. Right under your nose." He glances meaningfully at the floor as he steps toward me.

Instinctively, I press myself into the wall behind me, ignoring the cold damp that seeps into my shirt from the stone.

"Don't worry," the man says. "I don't want to hurt you. You're just the messenger. I'm not going to hurt you."

"The messenger…" My mind is reeling. I have to keep him talking. I can sense he's nearly finished with me, and then – and then what? I believe him, believe that he doesn't intend to hurt me. But if he finishes with me, does that mean he's then free to go and do God-knows-what to Sherlock? I'm trying, I really am, to stay focussed, to stay calm. I'm a calm man. I'm a soldier. A doctor. I have certain skills toward remaining calm in times of stress, but my breaking point is fast approaching. I don't like being toyed with. I don't like to be threatened. I don't like the idea of Sherlock chained up in a place like this.

I don't like the look of utter enjoyment on this man's face.

"Yes," the man says, smiling. "Just the messenger, and there's the old saying – don't shoot the messenger. I don't intend to. I'm not going to hurt you. Sherlock, on the other hand…" He shrugs, as if to say it's ever-so-unfortunately unavoidable.

The chains rattle violently as I struggle against them, flailing uselessly against my restraints.

"Who are you?" I roar hoarsely. I had thought we were done with this, after Sherlock's suicide. I really had thought. Foolish, perhaps. So foolish. God.

"Oh, that doesn't matter." He frowns. "You'll learn my name soon enough, anyway, Doctor. But for now it doesn't matter. For now, you just need to know one thing: Moriarty is not dead."

I growl something obscene, but it's weak. My strength is failing. The drug – whatever it is – has done a number on my body. "I saw the body."

He nods casually. "Mm, you misunderstand me, my dear man. Try to follow."

I obey. I struggle. My head hurts. I comprehend after a few long moments. "You mean… You mean his… network."

"Is that what you lot are calling it? A network? Hm. You know, I'd thought – what, with it being Sherlock and all – there would be a more creative name for it. He called Jim a spider once. A spider with a web of lies. Oughtn't it be the Moriarty web?"

I can only look on now, waiting for whatever's coming next. Waiting. Helpless.

"Yes," he continues, after inspecting the floor for some time. "I mean the _network_. The man is dead, but the idea lives on. And ideas are most dangerous, Doctor."

"You cannot kill an idea…" It comes unbidden to my mind. I remember Sherlock saying it, pacing feverishly in our flat. Just twenty-four hours before he stepped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The context was different then, but the meaning is the same.

"Ideas cannot breathe or bleed or die," the man agrees, smiling at me as though I'm the new head of the class. "You're catching on. The idea, the thing, the monster of Moriarty – that is still very much alive. And there are forces at work here which even Sherlock Holmes cannot compete with. Jim didn't just want to be cleverer than him, Doctor. He wanted to _win_. And win he shall, even from beyond the grave." He makes a grandiose gesture with both of his arms, as if to encompass the world.

I am feeling weak, dazed, dizzy. I hang my head. "Why are you telling me this?" My voice is a near-whisper. Pathetic. I can feel the room tipping. "I'll go to the police. I've seen your face, they'll… they'll sketch a composite and find you. I've seen this room, I've… They'll find you. I'll help them, and they'll find you."

He slides a finger under my chin and lifts so that our gazes meet. "You won't remember," he says softly, breath hot on my face. There is something like sympathy in those green eyes. "The drug is potent, Doctor. It's a mixture of several different things – I can't reveal my secrets – but one of them is gamma-hydroxybutyrate. So you won't remember much of this meeting. The basics, perhaps, but the details will undoubtedly elude you. And if you do happen to remember something – the cut of my suit, the colour of my eyes? – you will question yourself. Did I imagine it? Was it an hallucination?"

"Where is Sherlock?"

"He's here, as I told you. Don't worry. You'll get him back. In a few days. I need to have a talk with him, too, though."

_Alive_? I wonder. _Will I get him back alive?_

"Yes," he says, reading my mind. "Alive. I can't kill him yet. Must go through with The Plan. Now sleep, Doctor. Sleep…"

Something pinches into my shoulder. My world crashes into darkness. My last thought is –

_Sherlock!_


End file.
